"Not a chance. I know this neighborhood. It is very sparsely settled."
A sudden whir above them caused them both to look up. It was the Golden Butterfly, swooping and hovering above the disabled Cobweb.
"Had an accident?" shouted down Roy.
"What do you think? You can see we're not flying, can't you?" bellowed Mortlake, his face crimson with anger and mortification.
"Can we do anything to help you?" came from Peggy, ignoring the fellow's insulting tones.
"No!"
"Yes!"
The first monosyllable came from Mortlake. The second from Lieut. Bradbury.
"If you don't mind accepting a passenger, I should be glad of a lift to Sandy Beach. I've got to make a train," explained the young officer.
In five minutes the Golden Butterfly was on the sward beside the crippled Cobweb. Mortlake's face was black as night. He fulminated maledictions on the young aviators who had appeared at—for him—such an inopportune moment.